


Prizes

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage, M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 23:03:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3746878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For finding the Arkenstone, Bofur’s promised Erebor’s second greatest treasure: Thorin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prizes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MocaJava](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MocaJava/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for anon’s “So in Lego Hobbit Bofur is the one who finds the Arkenstone. So what I want is young miner Bofur finding the Arkenstone and Thror is so grateful that he promises Thorin's hand in marriage to Bofur. Thorin is not down with this at first and Bofur is just plain overwhelmed, but as the two of them are forced to spend more time together in preparation for their wedding, Thorin finds himself genuinely falling for Bofur” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=25518338#t25518338). (Had to pick this one for my love of the Lego Hobbit games)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Thorin knows it’s nothing good by the expression on Dwalin’s face. He walks Thorin to the throne room but departs before they go inside, claiming, “Only you were summoned.” Thorin gets the distinct impression that his impenetrable best friend is uncomfortable, which never bodes well for him. 

But he’s never ignored a summons from his grandfather, so he strolls inside on his own. He keeps his head high as he walks down the slender walkway that leads to the central platform, where King Thrór is seated in his throne. Thorin’s steps falter as he nears it: the stories were true. _The Arkenstone_ , a dazzling white jewel gleams through the stone above Thrór’s head, shining like a star. Thorin’s drawn to it as much as his grandfather. He understands now why he was summoned. 

Another dwarf stands next to the throne. Thorin recognizes him vaguely from the mines—Thorin could probably recall the dwarf’s name if he had to, but they certainly don’t know each other well. A grey hat with floppy sides makes him hard to forget, though Thorin, for some reason, has only the image of him smiling, and this dwarf is now frowning hard, looking just as awkward as Dwalin did, and determinedly not meeting Thorin’s eye. 

When Thorin reaches the edge of the platform, he bows his greeting. 

“You see my prize?” Thrór starts immediately, thrusting one stubby finger into the air, as though anyone could possibly miss the shining star above him. “The Arkenstone! Jewel of the king!” A fire has come into his eyes, more intense but reminiscent of the way he gets when he’s spent too long in his treasury. 

Thorin agrees, “It’s magnificent.” And difficult to tear his gaze away from. 

“This one found it,” Thrór explains, gesturing sideways at the other dwarf, who shuffles his feet under the attention. It seems as though Thrór’s searching for a name, then finishes, “Bofur. Dug it out of the earth and brought it straight to me!” As though he could do anything else. An eerie grin comes over Thrór’s face, and he leans his head back in his throne, his long, white beard trailing up his stomach. His eyes rest on the stone above, fixing there while he drawls, “Such loyalty must be rewarded. You should be honoured to know that I consider you of the highest value, which is why he’s been given your hand in marriage.”

For a single moment, Thorin doesn’t understand. He’s sure he’s misheard, and he _stares_ at his grandfather, who’s so immersed in treasure that gold’s been woven into his beard. Thorin doesn’t even bother to look at the miner, because it isn’t about Bofur. 

He’s just been informed that he’s considered an _item_ , to be frivolously traded away without so much as consulting him. He growls, “ _What?_ ” hoping he’s misunderstood, but Thrór doesn’t correct him. 

Thrór simple watches his treasure with ever-growing eyes, while Thorin’s blood boils. His brain wracks for a way out. There are no laws to protect him, not from the king, but finally he snarls, “If I’m married to a man, I can hardly carry out your line.”

Thrór finally glances sideways, and he reaches out to pat Bofur’s belly. The miner looks horribly embarrassed. “No,” Thrór chuckles, as though this is all some grand joke, and Thorin should be perfectly happy to accept his fate, “this is one of those special few who have gone through a transition.” He says no more but doesn’t have to. Thorin understands. It doesn’t matter. He’s perfectly fine marrying a man, but he would strongly prefer one _he_ chose. 

Gritting his teeth, all that’s left to ask is: “Do I have any say in this matter?” He’s never spoken so defiantly to his grandfather before, but then, he’s never felt so betrayed.

Thrór merely waves a hand, dismissing him. That’s all the answer Thorin needs. His eyes sweep over Bofur before he turns, but Bofur’s expression is still a mix of hurt and horror. 

Thorin storms from the hall, fuming out the ears.

* * *

He’s halfway down the corridor before he hears the pounding footsteps, then his name called, and he decides to slow his steps. When he stops and looks around, he’s half surprised to find Bofur running after him. 

The miner stops in front of him, breathless, practically doubling over to regain some air. Bofur isn’t particularly fat as dwarves go, but he’s built enough to work a pick, and that keeps him heavy. It’s the first chance that Thorin gets to really _look_ at him, now that Thrór isn’t around to glare at.

It isn’t that he’s ugly. He’s not far off of Thorin’s height, not as broad around the shoulders but rounder around the middle, with long, dark, brown hair pulled into two braids, one on either side. His impressive mustache is curled around the ends, the patch of fur along his chin thick and coarse. A single fang dangles from one ear: a trophy from a battle, perhaps, or just a trinket for aesthetics. When he lifts up, he smiles sheepishly, and it puts deep dimples into either side of his mouth, his eyes kind. He’s _handsome_ , in a homely, grounded sort of way. His hat gives him a quaint sort of humour, the sides defying gravity as they are. 

He says, still a little breathless, “I’m sorry.” Then he pushes up, straightening, and shakes his head. “I didn’t ask for you.”

Thorin merely lifts an eyebrow. Both of Bofur’s lift. 

He hurriedly explains, “Not that I wouldn’t like you—obviously you’re very attractive—any dwarf would be lucky to have you—I only meant that I wasn’t expecting this, and I certainly wouldn’t ask to be... to be _given_ another dwarf.” He smiles turns apologetic. He doesn’t make any mention of protesting the decree, but of course, he wouldn’t have—a miner has no say against the will of a king, and it would dishonour Thorin if Bofur were to reject him now. Not that Thorin would care, but his father and grandfather would. And Dwalin would probably hunt Bofur down and demand to know what he thought wrong with his prince, but Thorin would understand. As far as he knows, they’ve never even had a conversation. The entire thing is absurd. 

Still, he admits with a sigh, “It isn’t your fault. It’s my grandfather. He’s been growing...” But Thorin cuts himself off; that isn’t information to be shared, even if it is prudent to their situation. ...Thrór isn’t the great, fair ruler that he used to be. 

But he’s still the king. And that means that his word is law, and, likely within the week, as Dwarven proposals go, Bofur will be Thorin’s husband. 

The humour slowly fades out of Bofur’s smile. It becomes a small, sad thing, and he says, “Don’t worry; I won’t get in your way.”

Thorin snorts. He feels just as helpless. “It isn’t such a simple thing—we’ll be given shared quarters.”

Bofur shrugs. “So I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Thorin doesn’t know whether to laugh or not. He finds Bofur easy to talk to, and that might be a bad thing. It might be easier over all if it were someone repulsive, that he could spend his life adamantly resenting and ignoring. 

But Bofur gives a little bow and leaves on that last promise: that he won’t cause Thorin undue trouble, as though he’s the sole burden in this situation. Thorin continues down the hall on his own, shaking his head. He’ll have to talk to Thrór.

* * *

Talking to Thrór gets Thorin nowhere. He refuses to listen, and in only a few days, the arrangements are thrown together. The entire kingdom knows, as it does any time anything with royalty happens, if only so the rest of Erebor can look forward to an excuse to take the day off and drink. Fortunately, most of the dwarves close to Thorin know enough of his brooding nature not to talk to him about it, so he doesn’t have to snap and remind everyone constantly that this wasn’t his choice at all.

Sometimes, he can’t stop himself from bringing it up anyway. As he rolls around with his two nephews in one of the fighting pits, a dulled practiced sword in each of their fists, he complains, “I’ve barely ever spoken two words to the dwarf!”

“Bofur?” Fíli asks from the sidelines, while Kíli clashes his blade with Thorin’s and attempts to drive his uncle back, despite his inferior weight. “But he’s so jovial. Have you tried?”

Thorin only sighs. Apparently, Fíli and Kíli already know him, which he should probably be concerned about—they can have poor taste in friends, as demonstrated by their fascination with that Nori character, who strikes Thorin as little more than a thief. He can only hope they don’t know Bofur through Nori. 

Trying to switch the subject, Thorin shoves Kíli back with his boot and growls, “I don’t know anything about him.”

Even as Kíli lands in the dirt, sprawled out and panting, he says, “He’s from the Blue Mountains. Has a brother and a cousin here.” Thorin steps fluidly out of the way when Kíli lunges up at him, missing and tottering across the vacated space. He turns around, bracing his sword in a ready stance.

Fíli, still waiting his turn, says, “He’s funny.”

“I like him,” Kíli adds, shrugging through the prone posture. “He’s a good guy.”

This isn’t going the way Thorin wanted it to. He expected his beloved nephews to flock to his defense, crying to their mother, who Thorin could very much use on his side, to speak to Thrór of this injustice. But apparently, they’re only interested in finding silver linings that Thorin doesn’t want to see. 

Thorin and Kíli move in a slow circle, warily watching one another, Thorin mostly just waiting on Kíli’s first move; he’s a drastically better fighter, and it makes these sessions more of a teaching lesson than practice. As Kíli cautiously bides his time, Fíli says, “He’s cute, too.”

Thorin snorts. He doesn’t disagree, but he finds himself teasing, “Watch it; that’s my fiancé you’re talking about.”

“You don’t even want him,” Kíli counters. “Maybe you should leave him for one of us; we know a good thing when we see it.”

“I like the way he braids his hair,” Fíli goes on. “It’s kind of sexy.”

That’s the final straw for Thorin, who looks back at Fíli to scold, “Even if he weren’t already mine, Bofur is much too old for either of y—”

He doesn’t get the final word out, because Kíli’s suddenly tackling him. Sword tossed aside, Kíli wraps around Thorin with his bare hands and sends them both flying backwards—it takes considerable strength and effort for Thorin to catch himself on one knee, refusing to fall. His sword is held out awkwardly; he wouldn’t bring it down on Kíli, even dulled as it is, but he won’t be brought down himself, either. 

Except Fíli uses that chance to join in, grabbing Thorin from behind. The two of them manage to wrestle him to the dirt, forcing him to drop his sword, while he laughs from the exertion, “You little cheaters!”

Distraction tactic or not, their opinion of Bofur does matter. And it sticks with Thorin. He’s never seen the Blue Mountains before.

* * *

The night he speaks to Dís, he returns to his quarters grumpier than ever. Like her children, she doesn’t see anything wrong with the situation, because apparently Bofur’s “better than you deserve, with how stubborn you are.” She only reminded him of his status as royalty, and that he likely never would’ve been free to marry whom he chose anyway. According to her, he should be happy to get a hot, clever, kind dwarf before Thrór found some over-fertile dwarf half his age with nothing in common to stick him with. 

He can stand the sight of Bofur, yes. He doesn’t _hate_ Bofur. He barely even knows Bofur. But therein lies the problem.

Dís says you can learn to love over time, but that’s easy for her to say; she already got her fairy tale. 

He’s still mildly simmering by the time he gets inside and shuts his door behind himself. He takes two steps in, headed for the grand bed and duly needed rest, before he realizes that the room isn’t the way he left it. 

Then Bofur emerges from the adjacent study, smiling nervously. He says, “Looks like we’ve already been put together,” and Thorin more closely eyes his surroundings, understanding. 

His furniture’s been rearranged. A few new things have been added, shabbier and less-expensive looking: likely Bofur’s. 

Bofur offers up another sheepish, “Sorry.”

There’s still only one bed. He walks towards Thorin, still in similar clothes as the last time Thorin saw him, mostly subdued browns and blues—not as rich or fine as Thorin’s robes. But he wears them well, anyway. He’s still got the same hat, the same earring: a show of personal style. Thorin sighs, tired both physically and of everything, and he slips his own coat off his shoulders. 

Bofur steps behind him to help and takes it, like a servant or a squire. Thorin’s had enough of those over the years, and he didn’t expect Bofur to fall into that role. Maybe Bofur’s just trying to tame him, to curve that legendary Durin wrath. He goes to the hook by the door to hang the coat, and Thorin stands to watch him, eyeing his back. 

“Are you hungry?”

The question catches Thorin off guard. He takes a minute to admit, “Yes.”

Bofur turns back and says, “Good. Because we’re supposed to pick out what we’ll have for the feast.” He leaves off ‘for our wedding,’ but it still hangs in the air. He shrugs again, awkward but not discouraged. 

Thorin says, “Alright,” but it comes out as a groan. He tells himself that if he has to go through with this, at least he’ll make as many of his own choices as he can. And they may as well go together. 

They’re going to have to do a lot together. Might as well start now. He comes towards the door, and there, Bofur thrusts out a hand. He’s brave, Thorin will give him that. 

If only because the warmth in Bofur’s eyes makes Thorin more relaxed than a night with his own sister did, he slips his hand tentatively against his fiancé’s.

* * *

Dinner was too enjoyable. _Bofur’s_ too enjoyable.

It wasn’t that he said anything remarkable. He was funny, yes, cracked jokes here and there that made even Thorin smile, and he was amiable—the sort of person that’s _impossible_ not to like. And it worked well with Thorin’s darker quiet. A good balance. The conversation flowed. His nephews were right. 

But now the illusion’s shattered, and Thorin’s on his own again, left to stew in the trouble. So Bofur’s easy to be with and stylish and perhaps a little beautiful. It doesn’t mean they could work together for the length of a marriage. It doesn’t mean that Thorin could lie with him every night, wake up to him every morning, perhaps put children in his belly. They haven’t even talked about that. Would Bofur even want children? He seems like he’d be good with them. Thorin would be a good father, he knows that, if only because he so adored Fíli and Kíli when they were small, and sometimes, he’d admit to Dís he was jealous. Still is. But Bofur seems good with them, too. 

And Bofur’s obviously selfless. He took the couch in the study, while Thorin’s stretched out in his large bed, despite there obviously being room for two. In a way, he feels guilty for taking it. But it was _his_ bed first, and Bofur had moved off before Thorin could protest. 

Just as he thinks of it, he hears a noise from the study. It’s small, deep, and he has to strain to hear it. It strengths, quiet, and reverberates in the air—Thorin lifts of his pillow. Humming. Bofur’s _humming_.

And Thorin recognizes the song, too. It’s an ancient one, of far off lands and mountains, fire and gold. It’s been too long since Thorin heard proper music. 

His eyes fall closed. He lowers carefully back to the pillow, but now he’s attuned to it and listening with everything he has. He follows the stanzas in his head, until the soothing noise transitions into words. Bofur sings, hushed but poignant, words that linger in Thorin’s soul. It’s beautiful. But the song is sad, and Bofur gives it that pain, makes it powerful and personal, until Thorin’s heart is clenching in his chest. He’s always loved this song. But Bofur makes it excruciating and gorgeous, and that makes him love it all the more. 

When the song is over, Bofur returns to humming: a different tune, a happier one. 

Thorin slips out from under the covers and reaches for a candle. Fetching a flint from out of the night table drawer, he lights it, unwilling to wait for morning when a servant will come to change his hearth and the sun will stream in through the high, chiseled out window. 

He doesn’t bother with his robes. His room’s still warm enough, though he’s worn only a long, beige tunic to bed, that covers down his thighs. He takes the candle and walks quietly around to the study, his feet chilled against the stone floor. 

Bofur breaks off when Thorin rounds the corner, bringing the light of the candle with him. Through the darkness, Bofur’s stretched out along the couch, his hands behind his head and a single blanket across his lap. His feet are bare, his thick legs visible at the bottom, his top covered in a similar outfit to Thorin’s, but brown, with the strings over his chest halfway undone. He looks at Thorin with his warm eyes, his cheeks a little pink—perhaps embarrassment or perhaps a trick of the light. 

Thorin asks, “Do you want to come to bed?”

Bofur blinks, lips parting in surprise. Thorin doesn’t back down; he’s made up his mind, and once he’s done that, he rarely ever changes it. The song should earn Bofur a proper bed to sleep in, at least for one night. 

Bofur says slowly, “You don’t have to.”

Thorin isn’t accustomed to repeating offers. His tongue traces over his lips, thinking, and he says instead, “You have a beautiful singing voice.”

Bofur grins broadly. It highlights his cute dimples and makes Thorin’s stomach tighten, strangely unsettled, his skin a little hot beneath his tunic. Bofur says, “Thank you.” Now that he’s heard it twisted around a melody, Thorin’s not sure he’s ever known a more sincere voice in all his life. 

Without another word, Bofur lifts the blanket from his lap. His tunic is a bit longer and thicker than Thorin’s. It still clings to him, a smidgen tight around the middle, and perhaps if Thorin had better light, he could get a proper glimpse of Bofur’s figure. Instead, he only has the fuzzy yellow-orange shape the flickering fire gives him. Thorin turns first, guiding them back to the bed.

They climb into opposite sides. There’s just enough room for them not to have to touch. But they share the same blankets, and Thorin can feel the dip in the mattress from Bofur’s body. 

He blows the candle out, and as he settles into the pitch black, he wonders which way Bofur’s facing. He wants Bofur to sing again. He wants to know if Bofur plays any instruments, and if he can fight, and if he’s always wanted to be a miner, or if he did something else in the Blue Mountains. 

Thorin never gets these answers, because he never asks the questions. He falls asleep in his own silence and wonderment, finding that Bofur fidgets slightly but doesn’t kick or snore.

* * *

When he comes to in the morning, there’s an unfamiliar but pleasant scent in his nose and a warm, soft weight in his arms. 

He realizes belatedly that it’s his future husband. He’s nestled up against Bofur’s back, his face buried in Bofur’s hair, one arm strewn over the blankets and Bofur’s middle. Their legs are curled into one another. It occurs to Thorin that this is the first time, other than last night, that he’s been around Bofur without the hat on. 

He vaguely remembers moving closer in the middle of the night. Half-asleep, they nuzzled into one another, maybe a little for warmth and a lot for something else. Though he can’t remember much of them, Thorin’s sure he had only peaceful dreams. He’s a little stiff against Bofur’s rear, but not enough to be distressing. He shifts his hips back and doesn’t think it’s too noticeable. Then he wonders how long he can get away with staying like this—it’s been too long since he held anyone. 

Bofur fits too well in his arms. 

Bofur smells pleasant, feels pleasant, even sounds pleasant with his deep, soothing breaths, and Thorin has to forcibly remind himself what’s wrong with all this. 

Then a knock sounds on his door. A respectfully quiet one—he recognizes Balin’s pattern. He detangles himself immediately from Bofur, though Bofur goes on sleeping. Shifting to the other side of the bed under the pale morning light, Thorin creeps across his floor. He opens the door quietly, so as not to jar his fiancé awake, and he slips into the hall—the royal chambers are all connected, and as he thought, no one else is around. Before he has a chance to close it, Balin’s taken a glance over his shoulder, likely to see the sleeping form in his bed. 

Thorin asks, “What is it?” and tries not to feel so transparent. He respects Balin more than almost anyone else, yet sometimes the older dwarf can be a little _too_ wise. 

Balin asks, with a subdued, compassionate smile, “Is everything alright?”

Thorin nods and replies, “Fine,” even though, right up to last night, he might’ve given a very different answer. 

Balin nods and looks a little relieved. But he still hesitates as he announces, “I bring... somewhat awkward news. Thorin... the king would like the marriage to take place tonight.”

If anything, Thorin’s surprised by how little the news troubles him anymore. Perhaps he’s grown used to it. Perhaps the dinner, and the song, the approval of his family, and the reality of Bofur in his bed have changed him. It’s not something he’d like to admit, but there’s nothing else he can do. He nods, feeling heavy. 

Balin pats his arm. “He just wants another heir,” Balin sighs, and they both know who he means. “You’ve been single long enough; Dís’ children are almost big enough to rule themselves.”

“Then they should rule.”

Balin chuckles lightly, shaking his head. Thorin means it. He wouldn’t mind seeing Fíli or Kíli sit on the throne after him.

But then he thinks of his own children, little dwarves running between him and Bofur, asking to wear their father’s hat or the crown, and he winds up rubbing his forehead. Balin gives a half-bow to make his exit, leaving Thorin alone with his choices and the options he was never given. 

Then he returns to bed, where Bofur’s waiting for him.

* * *

Bofur looks even more beautiful at the ceremony. He’s been given the proper robes, rich, crimson ones with golden embroidery and silver armour overtop. His hair’s been let down around his shoulders, the thick braids leaving waves in their wake. His hat is gone, a golden circlet adorning his head instead, his one pierced ear sporting a sizeable jewel. He sits on the floor next to his brother, a hefty dwarf with orange hair and an enormous braid across his middle. Thorin sits next to Dwalin, his dearest friend. 

Once, Thorin heard from a Dale trader that Dwarven weddings aren’t much to go to. Dale does it differently, with outdated rituals and plenty trinkets, maddening preparation and silly customs. The elves have long, elegant affairs, with wine and dance and music and too much reading for anyone to bear. Dwarves, the trader said, are too quick and informal and crude. 

But Thorin would never have anything but a Dwarven wedding, and he likes the way he sits with his chosen friend, across form the partner he could’ve chosen, while others filter in to sit and take food or smoke pipes or rattle noise-makers. He and Bofur face one another, their knees nearly touching, both of them cross-legged by coincidence, with their rears growing sore from the stone—a strategy, Dís once told him, meant to make them crave the bed after. Whether or not it’s true, Thorin doesn’t know. It might be more comfortable in his bed, but it’s more merry here, amidst the growing crowd, in the largest chamber besides the throne room, all alight with torches and the glittering surface of as many golden statues as Thrór could fit in: a promise of prosperity. They’re almost full to bursting with dwarves, and the cheer is loud. Thrór and Thráin sit in makeshift thrones behind them. Dís and Fíli and Kíli are at their feet, his nephews beaming the brightest of all.

Bofur’s face is light, calm. He wears his natural smile as well as his armour. Thorin wonders if he looked this lovely when he first found the Arkenstone, lit up it in its radiant glow. 

Balin is the one to officiate it. When the halls is as full as it can get, he comes to stand before them, opens his old scroll and reads off it what their future holds: what their union will be like. Thorin doesn’t hear much of the words; he’s busy looking into Bofur’s face. As the chatter of the hall dies into a low buzz, Thorin can hear Bofur’s humming in his mind, and it makes him wonder if this marriage is really such a problem. Bofur’s eyes never leave his, either. Maybe they have a shot.

And then, before Thorin’s done taking all of Bofur in, it’s over. Balin rolls his scroll back up and announces, “May your first act together foreshadow all to come!”

They could do anything here. They could clasp hands. They could rut their foreheads together. They could braid each other’s hair, but Thorin, having never truly thought about it, suddenly knows what he wants to do. 

He’s leaning forward, and Bofur’s following, and they meet in the middle, their mouths pressing together. A spark flies, and as the chaste kiss ends, Thorin surges forward for another, kissing Bofur harder. His hand shoots up to cup Bofur’s face, threading through his soft hair, and Bofur pushes back into it, his mouth falling open. His tongue rushes out to meet Thorin’s, the two tangling together, their mouths working as their heads tilt, trying to push closer. It’s warm, wonderful, and more intoxicating than Dorwinion wine. They share several long, passionate kisses before they finally pull apart, and even then their noses tilt together, rubbing to seal the union.

The hall erupts in cheers. 

They’re joined. 

And in the years to come, Thorin regrets the Arkenstone, but never once the union it gave him: his greatest treasure of all.


End file.
